


Tanglebox

by KDlala



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Alliance, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Gen, Horde
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:10:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KDlala/pseuds/KDlala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no such thing as a single tale. Every story is a tapestry made up of a thousand threads. WoW based, across expansions and continents both. Rated M for language, violence, and adult content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Amma Speaks

**Author's Note:**

> The world and its characters, except mine, belong to Blizzard. This story is non linear, switching back and forth between times, places, factions and points of view whenever my feverish little brain sees fit.

We sometimes choose the most locked up, dark versions of the story, but what a good friend does is turn on the lights, open the window, and remind us that there are a whole lot of ways to tell the same story.

**\- Shauna Neiquist**

* * *

_Ah, stories._

_They're the lifeblood of a world when you think about it. The messengers of memory, the spice of imagination, the balm to a child's fears. They soothe and excite, inform and inspire, they can bring people together or tear them apart depending on how they are wielded. Every person's life is a story, some mundane, some incredible, some in between. You weave those stories, and those people, together, and you have a true legend._

_It takes a world of people to make a legend. A long tapestry of lives and actions that shape a story. And when that story makes up the events of an ever changing world it would give a storyteller far greater than me a challenge to try and describe everyone within it. Me? I was born of the Wildhammer clan and married an Ironforge man born and raised, which means I have a bunch of dark skinned, red headed sons. And one daughter._

_All you need to really know about me is that I have an intense love for stories._

_I raised my own daughter on stories, you know. Which is why it is entirely fitting I put her story down here. Not just hers, of course, but all of them. My girls. They're all almost family to me, by this point. There's plenty of people that won't like the sound of that, but my girls have never been particularly interested in what others think. You'll probably know some of their names, as it's very likely you have owed your life to one or perhaps all of them at one point._

_Would you like to hear some of their stories? Of course you do. You opened this box and pulled out all these papers, didn't you?_

_I am Amma Stormseer of the Explorers' League. And these, my friends, are my girls (and their men)._


	2. It's a Hero Thing

They had separated into two groups of two on either side of the room out of respect for the wounded. If they had all stood together like they usually did, it might have given their fearless leaders a heart attack.

"I'll wait until you're healed to finish you, Nazgrim. Let it not be said that the Alliance has no honor."

"I hope you have the courage to die bravely, human. I'm in the mood for a good fight."

Jama glanced between Admiral Taylor and General Nazgrim, back and forth and back again, as she had been for the past quarter hour or so. The human and the orc were too busy trading threats for any of them to get a word in edgewise.

The tauren stole a glance at Rowen, who was standing with Liikaa on Taylor's side of the room with the rest of the Alliance survivors. Since they had been fighting on the way up here, the woman-wolf had not bothered to switch back to human form. She scratched her snout idly and glanced out the window where they could hear the sounds of fighting in the distance. Liikaa was also staring out the window, frowning, her tail twitching anxiously. She was the most distressed at the events that had led up to the destruction of the Jade Statue. Rhaspidy had worriedly confided in her that if she hadn't found Liikaa in the aftermath of the battle, she was afraid the draenei would have succumbed to her guilt and sorrow, devoured by the Sha that had infected the area.

Personally, Jama thought that the fact they had saved the pandaren of the Valley of the Four Winds, up to and including taking down a Mantid Colossus (from the inside!) went at least a little way to making up for their part in releasing the sha. But then again, Liikaa had a tendency to carry a great deal more weight than was necessary. And she worried too much. It was clear she thought the fighting going on in Binan Village was yet another result of the Sha being released.

Unfortunately, Jama had seen enough to know that assumption was probably the right one.

All roads led back to the Sha these days.

It was Rhaspidy, predictably, who finally broke the group's silence. The elf leaned around Jama, looking down at her friend, raising one long eyebrow. "This is even more awkward than that meeting at Dalaran, you remember that, Lii?"

Liikaa turned her attention from the window, blinking. "Yes…"

"It was all of us, then…well, not you two yet," she addressed Rowen and Jama, "but the rest of us. Well, Cam and Hahji weren't there, either…"

"So, not all of you then," Rowen broke in, rolling her eyes.

Jama noted that both Taylor and Nazgrim had stopped threatening each other and were looking over with identical frowns.

Rhaspidy glowered at Rowen, but Liikaa spoke up before she could retort, her voice mild. "It wasn't quite as awkward. It wasn't about Horde or Alliance then."

"It's never been about Horde or Alliance to _me_."

"But it was sort of the same thing, I suppose. Waiting for the leaders to tell us what threat we needed to face down."

"This time around they're going to ask us to help the Pandaren fight off the attacks on the village. Both of them. You watch."

By that time in the exchange, Rowen was staring at the ceiling, clearly trying not to laugh. Jama had to look away to keep her own laughter from bubbling up. Unfortunately, that put her gaze right on Nazgrim, and the outraged expression on his face only made her want to laugh harder. She stared at her hooves determinedly, swallowing hard.

Even Liikaa looked amused, which been Rhaspidy's goal, of course. The grin she shot Jama said clearly that making them laugh and upsetting the military presence in the room was a nice bonus.

"Of course, we were already going to help the village," Liikaa said. "Not because we need to get their support for either side of the war…"

"…but because we're heroes and that's what we do," Rhaspidy concluded, nodding sagely. "And with that, I bid you all a very fond farewell. I'm going to call Nimna to me and see if the yaungol are as fascinated by a succubus as the hotzen were. So much to learn!" She almost skipped back down the stairs, leaving Nazgrim gaping after her. Jama decided to use the opportunity to slip out too, and wasn't surprised when Rowen trotted up behind her.

She heard Taylor speaking quietly to Liikaa behind them, but the draenei said nothing of it later when she joined them. Jama was grateful for that. They all knew they would be drawn back into their respective halves of the war eventually, but for the moment, they were content to turn their energies toward stopping the threat the war had brought on all of them.


	3. Deadly as a Blade's Edge- Evaer

_It is sometimes an appropriate response to reality to go insane._

**–Phillip K Dick**

* * *

_Acherus was theirs and they had connections to the living kingdoms, if a tentative one._

_Darion Mograine, the Highlord of the newly created Knights of the Ebon Blade, stood on the upper balcony of their great, floating citadel, looking out over the Eastern Plaguelands far below. The great, floating citadel now dominated the landscape, any town for Scourge or Scarlet Crusade now lying in ruins._

_The two groups he'd sent, guided by Thassarian and Koltira, had returned with news that both Thrall and King Wrynn had accepted Tirion's letter. The fact that his death knights were almost equally divided between races that had come from Horde and Alliance both meant they wouldn't...couldn't...take sides. He had no intention of dealing with that at the moment unless forced to. They were set here, already the seasoned knights were gathering and preparing to head to Northrend, leaving only the instructors and the death knights not yet fully trained behind to come later._

_Well, almost._

_The hum of magic from the transporter came from behind him but Darion didn't turn to see the newcomer, keeping his eyes on the land. If he hadn't been listening carefully, he wouldn't have heard the sound of footfalls, he noted with satisfaction, now quite certain he'd made the right choice._

_He turned around to face her. Evaer stopped a few paces away and bowed. "You summoned me, Highlord?"_

_He motioned her forward silently and studied her as she walked to his side. The crazed, bestial creature Razuvious had brought from Scholomance all those months ago had developed into one of his best; sharp and deadly as the edge of a blade. He turned his gaze over the Plaguelands once again, over where the Western Plaguelands lay. "You came out of Scholomance," he said quietly._

_Evaer stiffened ever so slightly at the name. "Yes, Highlord."_

_Oh, the hatred in her voice. Darion hid a smile. He almost felt sorry for the Cult of the Damned, he really did. He nodded across the land. "We're heading to Northrend in the next few days. Only the initiates and the instructors are staying behind. And you."_

_She frowned. "My lord?"_

_He nodded toward the horizon again. "The Argent Dawn has been focusing most of their efforts on Stratholme. Well and good, but with Naxxramas gone I'm not particularly worried about it. Scholomance, on the other hand, I don't want right at our back door."_

* * *

The ghosts of Caer Darrow had gathered to watch the group as it passed. Dark armor gleamed dully in the dim light of the Western Plaguelands, sheathing the forms of warriors that had been dead for quite a while. At first the equally dead inhabitants had assumed they were visitors to the foul school within the manor but then the beautiful woman who seemed to be leading them had paused, glowing eyes sweeping back and forth among the ruins of the village. From the pointed way she took note of them, there was no doubt she could see them, and the anger that had passed over that exquisite face had not been directed at them.

She'd paused only long enough to speak to Eva before following the group inside and when the other ghosts had wandered up, Eva had said nothing of what they'd spoken of, but there was an expression in the ghostly lines of her face that wasn't at all common on the isle these days. Not among the unfortunate dead or the even more unfortunate living if they were brought here.

Hope.

And now they could hear the sounds of chaos. The faint screams that echoed from the halls were not from the innocent who were dragged in for experimentation. No, they were screams of shock and fear from people who weren't used to feeling it.

And so the ghosts of Caer Darrow now waited at the entrance of the manor that had served as the home for their Lord long ago and was now the cursed school known as Scholomance. They waited. They listened.

And hoped.

* * *

All Darkmaster Gandling could feel at the moment was rage. The sheer, outraged fury coursing through him brought him down the halls towards his study past pale, shaking students and stepping over fallen bodies both living and undead without a second glance. The carpets...still fine in this area of the school even after all these years...were stained with blood and more of it flowed through the halls. That would have been fine...blood flowed copiously during lessons...except for the simple fact it was the blood of _his students_ that was flowing. And that wasn't right. That couldn't be allowed. This was the bastion of necromancers, this was one of the beating hearts of the Scourge. This was _Scholomance_ , and whoever had the _gall_ to invade it, be it the Argent Dawn or wandering adventurers with more bravery than sense, would pay in pain and screams and blood...

On the heel of that thought Darkmaster Gandling turned on one of the necromancers, a student who had just recently risen to the rank of Dark Master. "Where did they go?" he snarled.

The necromancer pointed down the hall. "Just one of them...the rest are still upstairs," she stammered, "She's down there. D-Dr. Krastinov…"

"One? You mean to tell me you let just _one_ of them make it down here? You call yourselves necromancers worthy of serving the Lich King?"

"Master..."

He ignored her weak protest and moved through the remaining hallways. The closer he got to the study, the more his step slowed. A tendril of anxiety that started to edge toward fear wound its way through his anger. He could still hear the sounds of battle from elsewhere in the school. One of the death knights he'd seen earlier, the orc, was bellowing something in his native tongue. Gandling hardly paid it any heed. He could hear a woman's laughter from the rooms in front of him. It was something of a miracle he could hear it, the sound hanging in the air like the ringing of a dozen silver bells, literally dancing along the spine, punctuating the other sounds pouring out of that room. That voice was the loudest one….and one he recognized.

Dr. Theolen Krastinov, a man more skilled in torture than anyone Gandling had ever met, was screaming.


	4. A Meeting

Of the group waiting for them, Jaina only knew Zhai and Mhere particularly well. Zhai because she was a mage and Mhere because she was a well known diplomat. Zhai was the only one who knew why this meeting had been called, but the troll was letting her speak on her own time. She sat still and composed, as she always was, her face revealing nothing; a tall, blue skinned figure with a shock of blue-green hair that was ruthlessly bound into a trio of tight braids. Her robes were simple, almost stark in contrast to the brightness of her skin and hair. Jaina had pointed out she had every right to wear the purple of the Kirin Tor now, but Zhai had dryly replied even she had her vanity and purple looked ridiculous on someone of her coloring. Instead, she had recently replaced the white jeweled stud she wore in her nose with a violet one.

The only sign she gave of her thoughts was the fact she was playing with the collar of bones and silver that encircled her slender throat. It was, Jaina knew, a gift from her mate, and Zhai had a habit of fiddling with it when her thoughts were troubled; it was a habit all the more noticeable because Zhai generally didn't give any other sign of her thoughts.

Mhere was sitting beside her, dark skinned and dark haired with her eyes a striking contrast of golden brown. She didn't look composed at all, in fact she looked terribly tired, Jaina noted with concern. She sometimes contacted the dwarven priestess for help because she was a born diplomat. But even her steady ability to keep the peace in nearly any situation had been strained by the hostilities rising between the Horde and the Alliance. Mhere had been pleading for reconciliation or at least a truce so they could focus on the troubles with the Scourge and the blue dragonflight, but she had been largely ignored. Jaina understood her frustration all too well.

Jaina glanced away and found herself meeting Zhai's calm green eyes. The troll gave her a questioning look and Jaina gave her the slightest of nods, turning her attention to the rest of the group.

Adraste was lurking not far behind Mhere, leaning against the wall swathed in a heavy coat of white fur and appearing bored. She was tall, even for a night elf, and towered over her best friend. Her hair was dark blue and chopped short in spikes around a handsome, sharp featured face decorated with tattoos that trailed down her neck, shoulders, and arms. Jaina generally tried to see the best in people, but she felt a surge of dislike every time she saw Adraste. That wasn't unusual: very few people liked Adraste because she was cold and mocking and just generally unlikable. Jaina always got the impression she was laughing at everyone she met, but if so, it was a cold, cruel kind of humor. Obviously, Mhere saw something in her, but Jaina couldn't imagine what that was except the night elf did seem to have a soft spot for her. She was the only person, according to Zhai, who could tell Adraste to shut up and expect to be obeyed.

Liikaa was sitting to Mhere's right, slightly away from her, with Rhaspidy Lothir sharing a bench with her. Adraste and Mhere were nothing compared to the oddness of these two. Liikaa was one of those that Jaina had only met long enough to get an impression of her but she'd heard plenty. She'd helped out around Theramore several times, and by all accounts, she was an even tempered huntress who was more comfortable in the wilds than the cities. The draenei had made a name for herself among the Alliance and as a champion of her people. The fact she'd accomplished a great deal of this at the side of a blood elf seemed to be something people willfully ignored, perhaps because the two never entered either Horde or Alliance encampments together. Not for the first time, Jaina wondered how such an extraordinarily strange friendship had come about…not that she was in any position to judge. She leaned back on the bench, looking around curiously, her long legs stretched out in front of her, tapping a hoof on the floor idly.

Rhaspidy looked a great deal more impatient, green eyes flicking between Jaina and Zhai, her hair a silver blond so pale it was almost white and held back away from her face with a pair of sliver and emerald clips. Jaina knew next to nothing about the blood elf other than the fact she was a warlock of frightening ability and despite this, both Liikaa and Zhai spoke highly of her. She was not a member of the Sunreavers. In fact, when she'd been cross examined by the Silver Covenant (Vereesa had insisted on it), she claimed it was her first time ever setting foot in Dalaran, adding that she found the place to be rather overrated. She'd made so many snide remarks, her entire demeanor carefully insolent, she was lucky Vereesa hadn't shot her.

The two undead members of the group were seated next to Rhaspidy. Feidra Valebrae sat in her chair, leaning against her staff. The second priestess in the group, the power that shivered in the air around her was as dark and oily as Mhere's was light and soothing. She sat unnaturally still, her sightless eyes bound with crisscrossing leather straps across the upper half of her face. The only time she stirred was to occasionally pat Liikaa's nightsaber, Duma, on the head. The cat was making rounds through the room, bumping his head against various members of the group until they relented and gave him a pat or a scratch behind the ears. Then he would return to curl up by Liikaa's feet for a short while before doing it all over again.

Jaina had been uneasy when she'd learned Feidra was a former member of the Forsaken's Apothecary Society. Feidra claimed, however, that she had left it long ago and had been perfectly fine with producing proof she'd had nothing to do with the horrific events at the Wrathgate. She had, in fact, provided whatever information she knew about Putress and his allies without a second thought. She was the only one who didn't seem curious or perturbed. As far as Jaina could see, Feidra didn't live by the Forsaken's mantra of patience and discipline so much as she just didn't give a damn. Zhai, however, assured her that Feidra would join them for Evaer's sake.

Evaer Valebrae was another Jaina had heard of. Mostly in whispers. She was the death knight members of the Cult of the Damned were learning to live in terror of, a cold shadow that brought exquisite pain and suffering down on people who were well versed in it. She didn't look much like a terror now, sitting on the floor near her mother, her knees drawn up to her chest and her forehead resting against them. She and Feidra shared the same red brown hair, but that was the only thing about them that would give a hint they were mother and daughter. She was much better preserved than her mother, only the pallid color of her skin and the way it was drawn tight over her bones giving away the fact she was dead. She had been a lovely young woman before she had died and been resurrected under Arthas' rule and even undead, her face still held an unearthly beauty. It was almost mesmerizing, perhaps because the more you looked at her, the more it became apparent that if Evaer wasn't already completely insane, she was teetering on the brink of it. It was in those pale glowing eyes that seemed to look at everything and nothing at the same time. She had probably been half mad by the time she had come to Northrend, but whatever sanity she still maintained was being eaten away by Yogg Saron's very clear hold on her. There wasn't any doubt about it. The things she spoke of matched too perfectly with what Brann and his dwarves had described both seeing and hearing in their heads to be anything else.

Jaina looked over the motley group they were trusting to lead the fight against an Old God as Rhonin came up beside her.

_Who will stand and face Yogg-Saron?_

The answer to that question had been drawn to Rhonin and Jaina Proudmoore's attention with frightening simplicity: the same people that had already faced down an Old God, of course.


	5. Grey Ashes- Jama

 

_If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance._

**-George Bernard Shaw**

* * *

The shadows were starting to grow over Darkcloud Pinnacle. The late afternoon painted the towering spires of Thousand Needles with red and orange, giving the shaman some fading light with which to finish his work.

Van Grimtotem watched silently as the shaman prepared his brother's body. Guilt and sorrow threatened to rise up in him again and he quashed both useless emotions down determinedly.

The shaman stepped back, studying the decorated hide he had wrapped around Merle before placing him on the funeral pyre. The old tauren shook his head with visible regret. "Such a waste of so much talent. Stormsong himself was interested in taking care of his training."

Indeed, it was one of the only reasons he'd allowed Merle short visits to Thunder Bluff. He had no worries of it tainting his brother as long as the Elder Crone and her people were with him to remind him of what _real_ tauren were like. One of his real mistakes had been allowing Jama to go as well.

The shaman's expression hardened and he said, almost as if he heard Van's thoughts, "Has there been any sign of your sister?"

"I have no sister," Van rumbled, rage twisting through him. "She lost the right to that title the moment my brother's blood stained her hands."

"She will pay," the shaman assured him. "She cannot expect to elude justice for long. Merle was favored by the elements, by the Earthmother herself. She will not escape retribution."

Van grunted in agreement and nodded curtly, turning to leave the shaman to his final preparations. Merle would be honored with a ceremony before they lit the flame beneath him. He had every intention of making sure he stood as a symbol to the rest of the tribe.

The shaman turned back to the pyre, glad to feel a breeze sweeping over the pinnacle. He could even see dark, brooding clouds coming from the direction of Feralas, as if the sky itself was angered by the death. He couldn't think of a better sendoff or a more dramatic way to mark a young shaman's death.

The wind whistling through the peaks around them, making wood rattle and leather flap noisily all helped mask the sound of a body not used to stealth creeping up behind him. The shaman finally registered he wasn't alone but it was already too late. The blunt end of a small axe crashed against the back of his head, once, twice, and he dropped like a stone to the ground.

The tall figure, black against evening sky, stepped over him and laid a trembling hand on top of Merle's body. Jama glanced around to make sure the alarm hadn't been raised yet and got to work pulling the body off of the platform, grunting softly as she hefted him, half dragging, half carrying him to the edge. It was quick work to secure the ropes she'd brought around him and fashion a crude pulley using the edge of the pinnacle and part of the pyre the shaman had built. She carefully pushed the body over the edge, digging her hooves into the ground to counteract the weight and gently starting to lower the body, going as fast as she dared. Someone would notice the guard she had knocked out to get up into the village soon enough, but this part of Darkcloud Pinnacle was far from the ramps leading up and she was pretty sure no one would suspect right off who had crept into their sanctuary and why. She considered it a blessing no one had come so far.

She couldn't lower him all the way to the ground from this point, of course, but the rope was long enough she could get him a good distance. When she reached the very end of it, she murmured an apology to her brother and let go, allowing his body to fall the rest of the way, glad she didn't have to hear the sound of him hitting the ground.

Jama made sure the remaining rope was very secure and grabbed hold of it, rappelling down the sheer sandstone face of the spire, her hooves scraping over the stone. Getting up one of the spires was next to impossible. Getting down, on the other hand…

When she reached the end of the rope, she reached into the pack at her waist and pulled out a pure white feather, saying a quick prayer to the Earthmother before gripping the feather and waiting for the feeling of lightness to flow through her limbs. Then she let go.

The height wasn't quite enough to kill her outright if she'd truly fallen, but it was definitely high enough it would have done her some serious damage. The enchanted feather…one of the many things she had purchased without her elder brother's knowledge…slowed her fall, allowing her to sink to the ground not far from where Merle's body had landed. She tucked the feather away and moved, grateful to see he had landed on an outcropping. It made getting his body to the ground a little harder but it also meant he wasn't too damaged. A few rope tricks and some time later, she was securing him to a small wheeled carrier she'd borrowed.

Jama cast one more glance upward, thinking she could hear an all too familiar bellow of rage, and hurried off into the dusk, pulling the cart along behind her.

* * *

She had to light a torch, both to keep away predators looking for an easy meal and to give her light to work. Jama was a shadow amongst shadows as she created a crude pyre using rocks, wood, and hide she had stretched and tanned herself. It was dark and her hair and coat were streaked with sweat. She had a healthy coating of dust and sand by the time Merle's body was settled atop the pyre. She shivered in the breeze sweeping the canyon as she gazed down at the cut she had made in the leather wrap so she could see his face.

He wasn't all black like Van and Jama were. Even when he'd first been born, his coat was marked with swirls of grey and spatters of black over grey. At first, there had been rumblings from the other Grimtotems that he was deformed or cursed in some way, but as Merle had grown up and it became obvious he was blessed with strong ties to the elements, they had changed to assurances that he was marked as special. Van in particular often declared his younger brother was destined for great things.

It was one of the few things Jama had agreed with him about.

Tears cut tracks along her dusty muzzle and she swiped at them, drawing in a shuddering breath, unable to hold back the tide of emotions anymore.

She had been the one they muttered about. She was the one who only had a steady eye and a good shot to offer the tribe. It was always Jama who fought with Van. Jama who snuck away when she was supposed to be practicing. Jama who got her brother into trouble. Jama who didn't show respect for the Elder Crone.

Jama who had killed her brother.

She had to reluctantly give the Hag all points for being fast on the uptake. The second Jama had gathered her wits about her after she had run away, she had headed to Thunder Bluff, fully intending to tell someone…anyone…that Magatha not only knew every damn thing that went on at every Grimtotem outpost, she was the driving force behind them. It had been naïve on her part to an embarrassing level, a fact hammered home to her by the sideways glances she had gotten when she arrived. She would have chalked that one up to the fact everyone kept an eye on a Grimtotem tauren- as well they should -until Magatha herself had cornered her, sadly condemning her for murdering Merle and making comments about how she, Jama, had always been jealous of him. She'd left soon after, not caring if it made her look guilty. She had no proof, and no standing whatsoever to refute Magatha's claims and she didn't doubt the longer she lingered the more likely it was she would have someone from the tribe coming after her. That mixture of smugness and anger in Magatha's eyes told her that clearly.

She might already have had a terrible 'accident', like her parents, long ago if it weren't for her brothers. Van had never allowed her to be killed because he insisted he could bring her around, the same way their father had insisted he could bring their mother around to the proper Grimtotem way of thinking. Van had defended her out of pride, but Merle…he had always done it out of love. Jama was the one who got them into trouble; Merle was the one that got them out of it.

Jama piled up wood beneath the pyre and stood for a moment, rocking back and forth, tears running freely from her eyes, her ears flat against her head. She made herself light the torch but found herself unable to put it to the wood. She tried to tell herself this was what Merle would have wanted. It was why she'd risked so much to get his body away from Van, unable to bear the idea of Merle being used as a symbol for something he hadn't believed in. That was what had finally caused Van to snap, she knew. It hadn't been the fact Jama was defying him, it was that she had swayed- at least in Van's eyes –Merle away from his rightful path.

He'd loved this spot, right at the point where the rocky heights of Thousand Needles gave way to the vast expanse of the Shimmering Flats. They'd snuck out often to travel over that fascinating plain, stopping by to watch the races on the Mirage Raceway. They'd even made it as far as Tanaris once. But something about the Shimmering Flats had fascinated Merle in a way she had never quite understood. The deserts had called to him. Sometimes he would stand outside the hut they shared with Van back in their village, facing the direction of Tanaris, his face raised to the wind, listening to it in a way only he and his kind could.

She finally dug up the courage to put the torch to the kindling beneath the pyre and watched it blaze up, climbing up and up to consume the pyre and the body upon it. The blaze might attract centaurs and most certainly would attract any Grimtotem that might be tracking her, but she didn't care. She'd accomplished what she had set out to do. Merle wouldn't be set up before the rest of the Grimtotem tribe for Magatha to intone something stirring and dramatic over. His ashes would rise to the sky and fall to the ground of his favorite spot in the wilds he loved so much.

Jama dropped the torch, raising her hands to her muzzle as a sob tore from her, giving voice to the terrible pain that had ripped through her heart from the moment Merle had stepped in front of her. Van's roars of rage, the pain in her head from when he'd thrown her across the room and the ice cold knowledge that her brother truly and finally meant to kill her had fogged her mind up enough it had taken her one long, horrible moment to realize what had happened.

"W-why did you do it, Merle?" she whispered hoarsely, closing her eyes. "It was going to be me. It _should_ have been me. You shouldn't _be_ here."

She had been going over the what ifs and should haves and if onlys in her head over and over. If only she had been able to keep her temper, if only she had simply agreed with Van's declaration to marry her off to one of Arnak's allies and snuck off quietly. She should never have snapped back at Van, their tempers sparking off each others' and creating a blaze. Then Merle wouldn't have had to step in between them yet _again._ He might not have tried to reason with Van, trying to make him understand he could not accept the idea that the tauren were the only real race that belonged on Kalimdor. That he couldn't stand behind the raids, the plots, the vicious attacks on other children of the Earthmother.

And oh, she shouldn't have taunted Van after Merle said that. It had been what had tipped him over the edge. The fact he'd never been able to fully bring his sister under control had been maddening to Van and the idea of both of them slipping from his grasp had driven him into new heights of rage. She'd seen it in his eyes as he had started throwing things, crashing through the lodge, picking up anything heavy; in the way he'd focused on her, seizing a spear leaning against the wall, all his anger picking her for a target. He might have regretted killing her later, but he had every intention of doing so.

Even now, Jama didn't know what Merle had been thinking. She wasn't sure _Merle_ knew what he was going to do. It had simply been in his nature to step in to protect his little sister even though Van was clearly out of control. She only knew he'd dragged her up and pushed her toward the door. She didn't know…would never know…if Van had been swinging at her and Merle had gotten in the way or if Van had actually driven the spear into their brother. She remembered the look of horror on Van's face that probably matched her own but it was far too late. Van was a mighty warrior and that blow had been meant to be fatal. It had run Merle straight through.

And she…she had run. Crazy with grief and fear as Van and some of his friends had gathered, she had run like a coward. The fact it had most certainly saved her life didn't make the act any less cowardly.

Jama sank to her knees and wept as her brother's body burned. "Big brother to the very end. It sh-shouldn't have been you. Not you. You were the one that was s-special. You were the one who was going to do great things. I was _proud_ of that, Merle…so proud of you. I was. You shouldn't have died for me."

She knelt there, even as the fire raged and consumed, not moving even when there was nothing left but ashes stirring in the winds, half praying some predator would come along and kill her. There was a terrible symmetry to that idea.

The wind swirled around her suddenly as if angered by her thoughts and a rumble of thunder high above her had her lifting her head. She shivered as the wind, cooled by the night, ruffled her hair and fur. For an instant, she thought she heard a whisper on the wind. It was her imagination, had to be. She'd never heard the spirits speak to her…

It came again. She was sure her ears weren't playing tricks on her this time. A whisper on the wind, the last word Merle had uttered before he died.

Her name.

Jama lifted her face as the storm opened up, rain pouring down on her, soaking her. She wasn't sure if she was laughing or sobbing or a crazy mixture of both. "Big _bossy_ brother to the very end. You're right. You're right…" She stumbled to her feet, watching the rain wash away the last of Merle's ashes, swallowing hard. Her brother had given his life to save hers, right or wrong. Just lying down and giving everything up was an insult to him and all he had stood for.

She lifted her face to the rain again, feeling it pound down, little spikes of coldness that now felt invigorating.

She and Merle had both loved storms. He always said he felt cleansed after standing in one and for the first time she truly understood what she meant.

Her mind turned, working more clearly than it had in days. She couldn't go back to Thunder Bluff and she couldn't stay in Thousand Needles. She didn't have anything resembling the power required to take down Magatha and Van and the rest of the Grimtotem clan, but that didn't mean she couldn't find ways to work against them. And one day…

Jama shivered, realizing for the first time exactly how big the world was beyond the lands she'd grown up in. There were so many places she'd heard of, but it had never occurred to her that she might see them. It was terrifying…and exhilarating.

Counseling herself that she would need to be very careful, she turned in the direction of the Shimmering Flats, finding it fitting to start by heading in the direction. She'd done odd jobs here and there for the people at the Mirage Raceway. That seemed as good a place to start as any.

Jama Grimtotem closed her eyes and took a deep breath…and Jama Farplain opened them, starting for the path that would take her out of Thousand Needles and into the world.


	6. A Lesson in Sarcasm

" _What, are we done already?"_

Zhai was sitting on a sun warmed rock, enjoying the warm breeze. She found the weather in the Valley of the Four Winds to be exceedingly pleasant. She found the Valley as a whole to be exceedingly pleasant, as a matter of fact.

"Are you sure you don't want to keep wading in this gross water?"

She had declined helping her friends with this particular little diversion of theirs, preferring to relax a bit and enjoy the day, although the faint sounds of laughter and splashing from behind her had certainly added to the pleasant air. It wasn't going to last…it never did…but why not enjoy it for the moment?

"Maybe we can find some more weird, splashy bottles for you to fill up with mud."

Zhai sighed and glanced over her shoulder. From just the corner of her eye, she could make out the bright pink of Li Li's clothing.

As she'd suspected, Chen Stormstout's niece was about to learn a very important lesson.

"My favorite part was when you splashed muddy water in my eyes. I'm being sarcastic, by the way," Li Li said, like her tone could have been mistaken for anything else.

Zhai rummaged through her pack and pulled out a blanket.

"Know what the cure for sarcasm is?" Rowen's voice came. If she'd been saying something to Zhai in that tone of voice, it would have been a cue to start backing up.

Li Li didn't know better though, that became apparent from the outraged squeal and loud splash that reached Zhai's ears clearly, followed by laughter. She sighed again and set her staff aside, rising to her feet. A couple minutes later, a pink blur started to charge by her and she caught Li Li up in the blanket before she could pass. "Can't go around soaking wet, Li Li. Catch cold, ya will." She rubbed her down briskly, despite Li Li's squirming to get free.

"I hate getting wet!" Zhai pulling back the edge of the blanket revealed a grumpy little face, black and white fur in disarray.

"Ya better get used to it. It's all part of the life of an adventurer."

"…Yeah, I know. She still didn't have to throw me in!" She shot a killing glare at the rest of the group coming up over the hill, gold eyes narrowed into slits.

"Well, now you know when you throw sarcastic remarks and such at Jama to stay out of arms' reach."


	7. Blood Oath's Price

Blood welled through black fur.

Jama sagged against the ropes that bound her wrists and kept her lashed between the posts on either side of her. She gritted her teeth as she heard the shrill, eerie whistling sound of the whip fill the air before it tore into her back again. Jama had felt the kiss of leather before and that had been painful, but her pelt had protected her from the brunt of it. But fur and muscle were no match for a bone whip. It tore through both like paper, which was no doubt why the Mogu had chosen to use them. They had needed something special for their thick furred, heavy bodied Pandaren slaves.

She shouldn't have been surprised Garrosh been inspired enough by the images of the Mogu's bone whips to have one or two made.

The orc- Jama wasn't sure if he was actually Kor'kron or just one of Malkorok's cronies –grunted and brought the whip lashing down again. Jama had lost count of how many there had been. The orc had only said something about 'softening her up'.

She could feel blood dripping down her back, and she was pretty sure the heat of the sun wasn't entirely responsible for the way her vision was going fuzzy. She was losing a lot of blood, she thought with an odd sense of detachment. She would surely faint soon.

A tug on the ropes made her aware that the whistling of the whip being swung had stopped. The orc cut her wrists free and she collapsed, unable to hold herself up, her arms and legs numb. He kicked her in the side, growling with contempt. "Get up."

She didn't move, debating whether it was worth it to refuse. On one hand, it might be amusing to see how many of them it took to move her. Then she twitched and agonizing pain sang along her back and shoulders. If they had to haul her up, it would be ten times worse. When the orc kicked her again, she pushed herself up carefully, swaying on her hooves.

She was dimly aware of passing into a dim interior that did little to take away the heat. A Forsaken priest looked her over and healed her a little bit. This wasn't a kindness, she knew. They didn't want to heal her to stop the pain: they wanted her alive and aware for the real questioning.

She knelt on the floor, closing her eyes as the orc paced around the room. She focused on the pain, using it to clear her mind, breathing in deep.

Her tormenter was one of those orcs she considered typical for followers of Garrosh. Filled with arrogance, temper, and bloodlust. This one, however, had a ruthless calculation to him she recognized all too well. There were several other orcs in the room helping him, watching her eagerly. She'd heard them calling and urging their leader on during the flogging. Apparently they were already ready for more.

They'd gone from ropes to chains, forcing her to kneel in the center of the floor, her hands shackled together and a heavy chain around her neck that fastened to the floor, forcing her to keep her head lowered. The position strained her back and she felt several of the welts the healer had closed break open again.

The orc moved so fast he was a blur, bringing a fist smashing into the side of her head, making her ears ring. He hit her again, bringing a growl of approval from several of the orcs standing near the walls. The orc leaned down close enough she could feel his hot breath on her face. "You ready to talk?"

Jama said nothing, keeping her eyes sullenly on the floor.

The orc hit her again. "We can keep this up for days if we have to. No one will help you. No one _wants_ to. Not even that whining chieftain of yours."

A spike of anger shot through her at that, but she tamped it down.

He leaned in close again. "You're going to tell me every bit of information…every _scrap_ of it…that you passed on to that Alliance scum."

_Careful, now._ That hated voice, Magatha's voice, echoed through her head. It was that cold, calculating part of her…the Grimtotem part…that was guiding her thoughts now. _Careful, careful._ The orc kept babbling on about her selling secrets to the Alliance. All the questions had been geared toward the Alliance. He had no way of knowing all that browbeating about the Alliance scum was giving her something to cling to.

He was right. There was no one who was going to come for her, but not for the reasons he thought.

At first, she believed he might have been trying to fake her out, lure her into giving him the truth, but with all the questions about Jaina Proudmoore and Varian Wrynn, she realized with relief that he hadn't figured out the truth. There hadn't even been any questions about the Echo Isles or Thrall.

If he thought she was simply selling secrets to the Alliance, then that's what Malkorok believed as well.

Which meant he didn't know Vol'jin was still alive.

It meant they might not have realized Thrall was back and working against them. That _Baine_ was helping stir the Horde against them.

And keeping Garrosh from knowing any of that for as long as possible was worth the pain.

Her silence enraged the orc. He hit her again and again until she slumped in the chains, dizzy. The orc managed to get himself under control and swung away, snarling under his breath. The sounds echoed oddly in her left ear and she dimly wondered if he had damaged her hearing permanently.

The Forsaken priest shuffled back in, carrying something, but she couldn't quite see what. She heard a wet, rattling chuckle issue from him and then he moved out of the room again, arms empty.

For a long time after that, there was silence except for the shuffling of the other orcs in the room and the occasional sound as her captor worked on something. She felt apprehension build in her, a buzz of alarm that spread down her spine and through her body. She forced herself to tamp it down, staring at the floor determinedly.

_Endure_ , that cold voice in her said. _The longer you hold out, the more they'll be certain you're hiding something of great importance._

Which she wasn't. Rowen had not told her anything Garrosh or Malkorok would consider important. She knew nothing about the Alliance's plans or their movements. Eventually, she was going to have to make something convincing up, she supposed.

Rowen had been keeping her updated on the situation with the creature known as the Thunder King. A threat Garrosh seemed to have failed to notice entirely. It had killed Jama not to be there with the rest of her friends battling the bastard- she hated the mogu –but once she'd earned the right to be considered a 'champion' of the Horde, Vol'jin had asked her to keep as close to Garrosh as possible. She wasn't an orc, so she had no chance of really being in his inner circle, but she'd been able to pull off quite a bit before they'd caught her talking to Rowen.

It was always the little, stupid mistakes that got you in the end, she supposed. She'd learned that one from Magatha, as well.

Still, she'd helped stir things up a bit. And more importantly, her little game with Malkorok and his cronies had hopefully pulled his attention away from Baine Bloodhoof.

A hand tangling into her hair and yanking her head back interrupted her thoughts. The orc was grinning in a way she didn't like at all. He loosened the chain around her neck and slid a wooden stool up close to her. He adjusted the chain, drawing her down, tightening it until her head rested on top of the stool, the chain holding her head and neck still. It was a supremely uncomfortable position, especially with her hands still shackled, contorting her body in a way that made her muscles burn. The orc pressed a hand over her muzzle, holding her head still.

That was when she saw the blade in his other hand.

It wasn't a dagger or a hunting knife, she noticed with a shiver of fear. The blade was longer, its edges serrated like a saw.

"I was thinking Malkorok could use a new hunting horn," the orc almost crooned. He brought the knife down and the shiver of fear bloomed into full on terror as he settled the edge at the base of her right horn. He wasn't going to just saw off a piece of it; he was going to slice it clean off her skull. "Yours are too puny to be a real hunting horn, though. Oh, well. I'm sure he can find some use for it."

The position of her head allowed Jama a clear look at one of the orcs standing against the wall. The eager expression and lusty cheering were all gone. In fact, he looked uncomfortable. It was an expression she'd seen on a couple orcs in the past couple of days. This kind of cold torture didn't sit well with some of the orcs, she realized. Whipping and beating they were okay with but this…it was behavior more in line with the Forsaken. It wasn't the way orcs did things. Or it hadn't been once.

Then the orc holding her down started sawing and all thought vanished. She cried out when the blade bit into her, unable to help herself. The orc laughed, delighted to get a real scream from her for the first time. Jama squeezed her eyes shut and prayed to the Earth Mother for endurance, for the strength to keep the truly vital secrets within her. If not for her own sake, then for the sake of Baine Bloodhoof, who was surely one of the Earth Mother's most blessed children. For the sake of her people, who would be broken under the weight of Garrosh Hellscream's madness. For Vol'jin, who had already survived far too much to be betrayed by her weakness.

And she prayed for oblivion before she had to feel that knife tear through the last bit of her horn.

* * *

_Blood welled through black fur._

_Jama crouched in that dark, dank cave, surrounded by the bodies of saurok and orc alike, and watched as Vol'jin made a cut in his own palm. The troll reached out, grasping her hand, pressing cut to cut, blood to blood. A silent oath. "Ah, it be done." His voice was rough but he remained steady on his feet. "We in dis together, until de end."_

_She nodded, closing her hand into a fist as he drew away, ignoring the pain it caused._


	8. To Ogrimmar

"Thrall! Hey, Thrall! Hey!"

Thrall paused and looked back- and down –as Perzha Silvesocket came trotting up, her short legs working overtime to keep up with his longer stride. Her blue hair was slicked back into a simple braid down her back, a far cry from the elaborate hairdo she'd had when he'd first met her. The harsh sun of Durotar glinted off the rings of silver and bone that decorated her ears and nose. She finally caught up to him, tilting her head back to look up at him. Thrall felt an odd, shifting sense of _déjà vu_ , suddenly reminded of a similar moment he'd found this goblin staring up at him…through the bars of a cage on an Alliance ship.

He was surprised to see her in Durotar and realized he shouldn't have been. Perzha had left Azshara behind almost the moment her people had settled into their new home to join him and Aggra in the Earthen Ring, lending her considerable powers toward healing the world. Perzha and the other goblin shamans that had joined had been quite an experience for the other races in the Ring. Some of them seemed to view the elements as tools to be used, which irked some of the more traditional shamans. Others, like Perzha, typically saw it as more of a business arrangement. No one liked to work for free, after all, as Perzha had mentioned during a conversation with Aggra.

Despite that cheerful practicality that Perzha displayed toward pretty much everything, she'd proven a valuable and loyal ally and Thrall believed she genuinely wanted to help. But even though she was focused on the task, she was, and always had been, far more up to date on what else was going on not just with her own people but throughout the world in general. Logically, one could point out that Jastor Gallywix still held a grudge against her and it was her best interest to keep up to date on what he was doing but Thrall had come to believe that it was simply in Perzha's nature to learn and keep updating her knowledge. Be it simple information or learning new ways to work with the elements, she was diligent and the goblin seemed able to think ten different ways at once.

He had not stopped her when she'd informed him she had to leave for a while and apparently joining her fellow goblins on Pandaria. Why she was joining Garrosh's effort was a mystery: Perzha did not like Garrosh. She hadn't liked him from the moment she'd brought Thrall's word to him on behalf of her people.

So, no, he should not have been surprised to see Perzha here. Most likely she had seen this rebellion coming for quite some time.

"I overheard you were heading to Orgrimmar," she said, getting straight to the point.

"I can't believe that all of my people think the same way Garrosh does." There was a part of him that feared now that Garrosh might have done something to his old friends like Eitrigg, but he wouldn't believe it until he saw it. He couldn't.

"I was thinking the same thing. I want to come with you."

Thrall frowned down at her. "I was under the impression Gallywix sent most of your people to Pandaria."

"A lot of them are over there, but there's a big group in Orgrimmar too. Gallywix isn't, but he's not the one I want to talk to anyway."

His first instinct was to say no, but he checked himself. No one was quite sure which way the Bilgewater goblins were going to go once the rebellion started. Jastor Gallywix was a despicable creature, interested only in profit. It was a matter of whether he would find Garrosh or the rebellion against him to be a better prospect. He _hated_ Perzha because she'd worked against him even before Kezen had been destroyed. But she was also very popular among the goblins despite Gallywix's attempts to discredit her. The goblins knew who they _really_ had to thank for Thrall's help. "You think you can convince the goblins in Orgrimmar to join us?"

"I think I can convince Boss Mida that it'll be in our best interests to get Garrosh out of the way. And I do believe it is."

"Boss Mida?"

"She's in charge of the Goblin Slums in Orgrimmar. If I can convince her, a good portion of the goblins will follow even if Gallywix fights with Garrosh."

Thrall was doing some quick calculating and finding the idea of bringing Perzha with him to be a good one. "She has a lot of influence, I take it?"

"Let me put it this way: if I had known about Mida back on Kezen, I never would have tried to unseat Gallywix because that would have put me in her crosshairs instead of him." Perzha's expression was uncharacteristically sober, but her eyes were gleaming. "I can help you, Thrall."

The former warchief considered her words for a long moment, and then nodded slowly, agreeing with her. "You always have been a great help, my friend. Come then, Perzha, the rest of the journey to Orgrimmar is not an easy one and the destination is just as dangerous."

"Story of my life, sir."


End file.
